Investigation at the OK Corral
by StaroftheDunedain
Summary: A fairly typical week in the life of Becky and Raylan Givens. Rated because that is what the show is rated... Follows my story Study in Moonshine, which follows Just a Hobby
1. Monday

AN: So, this is not exactly a sequel, but, hopefully, you will find it enjoyable.

Disclaimer: While I do own Becky, I do not own Raylan or Sherlock BBC. Darn it.

Raylan was a light sleeper; so, when Becky slid out of bed in the middle of the night, he woke up. He turned his face into the pillow and listened to the sounds of his wife moving quietly through the dark. When he heard drawers open and shut, he realized that she was getting dressed. He meant to ask _where are you going_ but his tongue was heavy with sleep and it came out more like, "W're ya go'n'?"

She slid on her shoes and leaned across the bed to kiss his temple. "I have to run an errand."

He looked up at the clock; bright red numbers making him squint and blink. " 'S 2 in the morning." He started to sit up, more awake than his pronunciation would lead someone to believe. "If you need to go to a crime scene, I'll come too."

She laughed quietly, and gently pushed his shoulder. "I just need to run over to the morgue and pick up a few things. Go back to sleep."

"Okay," he mumbled, laying down and immediately conking out.

He woke up again at 6 when the alarm blared loud in his ear. "Shit." He was not one to hit the snooze, so he got up and trundled out into the kitchen in his boxers to make coffee.

He found Becky at the table with her chemistry set taking up every square inch of the oak surface. She did not acknowledge his presence, her head bent over a beaker filled with some sort of viscous material. But she had made him a pot of strong blend, so he did not mind.

He poured a mug and took a tentative sip, turning away from her to make a disgusted face. How could it be, that a woman capable of incredibly complicated chemistry experiments, and who could keep hundreds of formulas stored in her head, was incapable of making a decent pot of coffee? It boggled the mind.

Still, coffee was coffee and he had drunk worse (though not recently). He added a liberal amount of cream and moved a few empty beakers. She glanced up when he did, expression annoyed, but she said nothing.

"Good morning to you too," he mumbled, coffee tasting even more bitter for some reason. He got out a plate and put some leftover hash brown casserole (she could cook, why no coffee?) on it, then opened up the food microwave, the one clearly marked "FOR FOOD ONLY, NO EXPERIMENTS ALLOWED" in big, bold letters on the door.

He started for a moment, then, calmly shut the door. "Becky."

"I'm in the middle of something."

"There are human fingers in the food microwave," he continued, still calm, although being dismissed was not sitting well with him. "We agreed…no body parts in the food microwave."

"I have a sheep's intestine in the other one," she replied nonchalantly. "I can't move it until my cultures start growing."

"I guess I'll get a sausage biscuit on the way to work then," he groused. He went to put his plate next to his cup on the table and realized that he did not have room cleared away. "God damn it!" He slammed both plate and mug onto the counter hard enough to chip china, and then slammed the bedroom door hard enough that it failed to latch and actually swung open again.

He was getting dressed in tense but smooth movements, radiating tension, when Becky asked quietly. "Are you angry?"

"Brilliant deduction, Becky," he snarled, grabbing his hat from the bedside table.

"Because of the microwave?" She sounded like he really did not get it.

"Yes, because of the microwave! And not being able to sit at my own damn kitchen table!" He tugged on his boots and shrugged past her, pretending not to see the hurt look on her face.

It was Raylan's bad luck that work was slow on that particular Monday. It gave him time to think. To think about the look on her face and those big, confused, gray eyes.

Work was boring, but he stayed late anyway. For the first time since meeting Becky, he did not want to go home. He even went out for a drink with Tim just to put it off a little longer. They had fought before, but this spat felt different somehow.

She was the one who put the goddamn fingers in the microwave he used for his eggs. Why did he feel guilty?

It was nearly midnight when he finally got back. All of the lights were off, which was unusual since Becky was such a night owl. He hung his hat on the peg in the hall and made his way blind into the kitchen. He turned on the bulb above the sink.

Everything was put away, including the clean dishes. The food microwave was clean, the experiment microwave was clean, even the mold sample from the counter was gone. There was a post-it on the food microwave-which smelled like vinegar-with a single word _Sorry_, written in Becky's beautiful handwriting.

Panic rose up in his throat. Wynona had left a note when she left herself, both times. That had hurt enough. Losing Becky would be so much worse.

She was not in the bedroom, but her clothes were. The panic died down, replaced by confusion. He ventured into the living room. Becky was lying on the couch under her ratty afghan, but her eyes were wide awake and clear.

"What are you doing out here?" He leaned against the door-jam, hands in his front pockets.

"According to Google, this is what I am supposed to do, sleep on the sofa."

"You've never done that before."

She sat up and looked down at her wooly-sock-covered toes. "I've never been entirely in the wrong before." She said it so quietly that Raylan almost missed it.

Any trace of anger he might have retained vanished like smoke. "Aw, Beck." He sat down next to her and wrapped her up in his arms. She hid her face in his collar. "You wouldn't have to sleep out here, even if I still were pissed."

This was not like them, vulnerable and open, but, hey, they could be. Sometimes.

"I cleaned," she mumbled.

"I noticed. Thanks."

They stayed that way for a very long time. Raylan's arm was starting to go numb by the time she spoke again. "I don't do those things to spite you. I just get…focused."

"I know."

"I can try to do better."

"Just, keep the experiments in the right microwave."

"What about the chemistry equipment?"

He shrugged. "That was a little out of line for me. I'm nobody's neat freak."

He though he felt her smile against his collar. "True."

He flicked her arm, gently.

She bit his collarbone, less gently.

"Kinky," he mumbled, tangling his hands in her curls.

She snorted. "I'm not the one who gets horny every time I wear a lab coat."

Raylan laughed. "That has less to do with the lab coat and more to do with the fact that you wear nothing under the lab coat."

She thought for a moment. "I concede."

He kissed the top of her head. "I love you, Becky."

"Love you too."


	2. Tuesday

AN: Thank you Sophie and SpadesJade for coming back! This is actually going to be a seven chapter story; one for every day in their week. Thanks, JustWhelmed, for betaing again.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Raylan was at his desk, hunched over his computer. He was not looking over at the open area of the office, but he heard familiar footsteps.

"Who's the woman?" A smooth, British voice said while the owner of that voice perched herself on the edge of his desk.

"A 250 pound man from Uruguay," he said, hiding his smile. "Wanted for murder, assault, and dogfighting."

A pause. "No need to be jealous then?"

Raylan laughed, "You are correct." He looked up and caught his wife's gray eyes. "Afternoon, Becky." The smile he was expecting, the outfit he was not. "Please tell me you are not running around impersonating a law enforcement officer."

She glanced down at the blue police uniform and picked off a piece of lint. "Would it help if I said it was for a case?"

"Where'd you get the gun?"

"Rachel loaned it to me."

Raylan wadded up a piece of paper and threw it onto his co-worker's desk. Rachel looked over at him, eyebrows raised. He pointed at Becky's holster and mouthed "You gave Becky a gun?"

"Without bullets," she mouthed back, before rolling her eyes and returning her focus to her work.

Slightly mollified, Raylan tried to lean back in his chair only to find Becky leaning over his shoulder. "Your fugitive is with his ex-girlfriend's mother-in-law."

"Thanks…" He smiled. "Not that it is not always nice to see you (_especially in that uniform_, he thought, _hot damn_) but why are you here?"

She shrugged. "I was observing a couple of officers testifying upstairs and I wanted to say hello before I go identify my X-Box smugglers."

"Hello, then." Really, he did not have a thing for women in uniform, but Becky in blues was doing a number on his libido.

Becky smirked and leaned down, lowering her voice so that it could not be heard across the office. "Unfortunately, the uniform is a loan from the Lexington Police Department, but I might be able to pinch the hat." She glanced down at his lap and gave him a sly wink. "Maybe the holster too." She kissed his cheek and hopped off his desk. "See you tonight."

He watched her saunter through the door, then, with effort, turned his attention back to his paperwork, wondering if Art would let him off early tonight.


	3. Wednesday

AN: Sophie, yes, John did teach her how to shoot, but Sherlock taught her that shooting at random things was all right, hence Raylan's fear.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

It had been a very eventful day at work and Raylan was looking forward to telling Becky about the man using a spotted viper as a murder weapon. It seemed right up the Holmes alley.

She had texted him that she was in the parking lot. When she was between cases, she sometimes drove him to and from work. He did not really know why, but it was sweet in a Becky sort of way.

The elevator doors were just starting to close when a woman's hand slipped between them to stop them. _Oh Lord,_ Raylan thought when Winona hit the Lobby button.

At least there was no irritating, sappy elevator music. Winona realized that she was in a small, metal box with her twice ex, and made a face that reminded Raylan of the time that Becky tried his day-old coffee.

She recovered her native Kentucky manners quickly, however. "Good evening, Raylan."

"Good evening, Winona." She looked as pretty as ever, but her mouth was set in an unpleasant line he had never really noticed before. The doors opened and a few more people got on, crowding them closer together. "It's a…surprise to see you back in Lexington." Was it really? He had not thought too much about her location since…this one night in a bar.

"My sister and I are selling mom's house," she replied quickly, brushing her hair behind her ear in familiar, nervous gesture. "Along with my fiancé."

"You're selling your fiancé?" He joked. In that past, he had felt something at that word fiancé.

She laughed nervously. "He's helping us sell. But, I promise, he's not in real estate. He's a corporate attorney."

Raylan's laugh surprised him, and her. He realized that, indeed, he did feel something. A fondness for a woman he had once loved more than anything and a desire for her to be all right. "I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

She almost seemed confused by his reaction, but then she smiled. "What about you? You seeing anyone?"

"Remarried, actually." He did not show off his simple, white gold band, but he rubbed it softly with his thumb.

"Really?" He would have been insulted at her shock, but last time she saw him, his getting over her seemed impossible to both of them. To her own credit, she looked contrite as soon as she said it. "What's she like?"

The elevator doors opened again and they started walking toward the parking lot. "Becky…is a private consulting detective." He chuckled. "She keeps eyeballs in our fridge, forgets our anniversary, and has the weirdest family in the world. But…she just, sees things, the world, different. There's always more to it for her than to anyone else."

They paused outside the doors, the last remnants of sunshine warming his skin. Winona had a wistful expression on her face. "What?" he asked, frowning.

"If you had ever looked like then when talking about me…I wouldn't have left you."

All he could really do was shrug.

"I'm glad you're happy, Raylan," she said, kissing his cheek and then walking off toward her car. He knew, somehow, that it was the last time he would see her.

He looked across the parking lot and saw Becky, wearing gray slacks and a purple shirt he thought was made of silk, leaning with a preternatural grace up against her battered, blue pick-up. He was very aware of his smile when he walked over, long legs eating up the pavement.

Anyone else would have asked him _who was that? _But Becky said "I hope that marrying a solicitor is better choice for Winona than an estate agent."

Raylan laughed and pulled her into a passionate kiss; one hand tangling in her black curls, the other at her waist, body pressing her back against the truck.

"Glad to see you too," she said with a soft smile.

"You're brilliant."

"Yes, I know. How was your day?"

He started telling her about the spotted viper, but he noticed that her smile lasted the entire way home.

AN2: I started this Raylan/Becky relationship before Winona announced her pregnancy so…It does not exist. Since I left it out of Study, I'm leaving it out of here. AU people!


	4. Thursday

Disclaimer: I do own Becky, but not Raylan (darn), Tim, Rachel, or Art….

AN: Betad by JustWhelmed…

When Raylan woke up that morning, Becky was lying on her back staring at the ceiling.

"Morning," he said softly, leaning over to kiss the corner of her mouth.

"We have 87 ceiling tiles," she announced blandly, hand squeezing his forearm under the covers. "And they were put in by an alcoholic ex-Marine."

So it was going to be one of those days.

"I'm going to go make coffee." He rolled out of bed in his boxers and undershirt and stretched until his back popped. "You want some tea?"

"Only if you lace it with arsenic."

The first time she had said something along that vein, Raylan had called John in a panic, only to learn that morbidity was just a synonym for boredom and, yes, she was perfectly safe to be left alone. Although the same could not be said of innocent walls, furniture, appliances, and the occasional bamboo plant.

Raylan just chuckled. "How about ungodly amounts of sugar?"

She groaned and pulled the covers over her head. "Why are you so bloody cheerful?"

He just went into the kitchen, whistling just to annoy her, and laughed at the pillow she threw, which missed him by a mile. He had a piece of toast and cup of black coffee while he read the newspaper, making sure to read everything of interest in case Becky decided to attack it with scissors like she did most mornings.

He made Becky a cup of tea, turned off the kettle, set the cup on her nightstand, and laughed at the dirty look she threw him over Bernard the Bear's head. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a dark red shirt, a gray blazer, and his boots. "See you later, Becky," he said, grabbing his hat from the nightstand and planting a loud kiss to the top of her curls.

"Mmph."

His magic never failed to work on her.

Later he was sitting at his desk when he got a text. _When are you coming home?_

_I just got here, Becky._

_But I'm boooooooooooored!_

_Go do an experiment or something._

20 minutes later. _Were you terribly attached to the green blanket?_

_Do I want to know?_

_Depends on how you feel about experiments with squirrel spleens…._

_Not my favorite topic of conversation._

_Then, no, you probably don't want to know. _Then, as an afterthought. _Bring home bleach._

Rachel smirked when Raylan's head hit the desk.

He did not hear from her for two more hours until Tim wandered over to Raylan's desk. "Any idea why Becky is texting me about the possibility of packing gunpowder into an aluminum crutch?" His phone vibrated in his hands. "And whether bullets would completely destroy rubber tubing?"

"Nope." Tim just smirked and walked back to his own desk. Raylan glanced at Art's door, which was shut, then picked up his phone. _Are you making a crutch-gun?_

_Possibly. Possibly a crutch bomb._

Raylan was sure that he should be worried. He was not. _At least you've finally found a use for that thing. It makes a shitty coat rack._

_I think I want a garden._

_That's a non-sequitar. _

It was another three hours before she explained herself. _I think I found a way to grow blue corn. I need a garden. It would be an endless source of experiments._

_Okaaay. _He actually liked to garden. _We'll go shopping tomorrow after work. … Blue corn?_

_It's edible. I think._

_Remind me to test it before we grill out._

_What about square tomatoes?_

…_..Are you serious?_

_I wasn't, but now that I think about it…._

Raylan laughed and put his phone in his pocket, picking up his jacket to follow Tim out the door. They were on their way to pick up a fugitive, but Raylan was still chuckling when they got to the car. Tim gave him a questioning look as he slid behind the wheel. When Raylan explained about the square tomatoes, Tim just nodded. "Fit better on a sandwich."

Raylan wondered about Tim sometimes.

The fugitive took much longer to track down and process than they had thought (so they had never guessed that the local carnival's bearded lady would be so damn fast). It took so long in fact, that when they finally got back to the office, Art told them that they could have Friday off.

Dawn was breaking over the hills when Raylan finally pulled into his driveway, but Becky was still awake; curled up catlike on the couch in one of his old t-shirts with a book. She smiled when she saw him. "You hungry?"

"Starving." He sunk down on the couch next to her, and was too tired to even feel up her smooth, bare thigh. He actually dozed off, startling when he felt a hand pull off his hat. Becky handed him a plate and a fork. "Blue corn?"

"Eggs."

He was tired that he would not have noticed eating blue corn. He left his plate on the coffee table, although he did have the presence of mind to put his guns next to it.

He dropped onto the bed, fully clothed. He did not climb under the covers or even take off his boots. He had stayed up later, pushed himself harder, but that was with danger or adrenaline. With Becky, he did not need to look out, because if he trusted anyone to realize something was coming, it was Rebecca Holmes Givens.

He felt her hands on his hips, rolling him over. He felt her tugging on his boots.

"Well, if you're in the mood, we can try," Raylan teased, grinning broadly despite himself. "But you're gonna have to do all of the work, Sweetheart."

She snorted. "Do men ever think of anything else?" He kept his eyes closed, but could hear the smile in her voice.

"Nope," he said, lifting his hips slightly so that she could pull off his jeans. Together they worked off his dress shirt and blazer, struggling for a moment when his right arm got caught in the sleeve, and on getting him under the sheets.

He flopped back, pulling onto her slim wrist as he moved. Gracefully, she came along and straddled his ribs. He absently regretted that he was not awake enough to appreciate it. "You coming?"

She kissed the corner of his eye. "In a moment. I need to lock the door and get the lights."

"Mmhmm." He forced himself to stay awake long enough to feel her slide into bed next to him, because holding her warm body next to him, that was worth staying up for.


	5. Friday

AN: *hides in corner in shame for having taken this long*

Disclaimer: I own Becky, but Raylan and co belongs to someone else. Even Bruce the cactus belongs to someone else (JostWhelmed)

Becky was the first one awake in the morning, which was not an unusual occurrence. However, her usual nervous energy was not at its usual level and she was content to merely lie wrapped in Raylan's arms. Well, mostly; the urge to cuddle was strong and when Raylan finally woke it was in the midst of a dream about adopting a pet octopus.

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head. "Mornin'" he drawled out, longer and lower than normal, sunshine and free time giving his limbs a pleasant lethargy.

She made a contented noise and pressed a couple of hot, openmouthed kisses to his bare chest that woke him up a little more, then rolled out of bed, heedless of her bare legs in a way that Raylan was not.

"You said you'd do the shopping with me today."

He groaned, but she was not fooled by his grouchy routine. She crawled over to him and gave him a scorching kiss, letting him trail his hands along the top of her thighs before twisting away. "Shopping?"

He glared at her. "You're cruel." She laughed and skipped from the bedroom.

She had started a pot of tea by the time he wandered in, jeans pulled over his boxers and still unbuttoned, and waited until he had at least started his coffee before launching into a discussion on the virtues of foxgloves over hollyhocks and where marigolds were scientifically proven to keep away pests.

He mostly ignored her in favor of pouring the black, life-giving elixir into a plain white cup he had gotten from Betty's Diner in Miami.

"Have you ever had a garden before?" Becky asked suddenly, looking up from her laptop where she was researching the necessary soil conditions for the best potatoes.

"Yeah, sort of. My mom had one when I was a kid, but Aunt Helen let it all go to hell." He took a sip of coffee and further mussed his bed-head. "What about you?" He started rummaging in the cabinet for a box of cornflakes.

"I had a belladonna plant when I was nine."

"Aren't those poisonous?" He asked, pouring on the milk.

"Yes… Why?"

He smiled. "Never mind. Do you want some toast?"

He asked more out of habit than anything else, surprised when she actually said "yes." She caught him looking at her and raised and aristocratic eyebrow. "I do eat, Raylan."

"Riiight." He coated the toast with butter and marmalade, cereal spoon dangling precariously from his lips.

She took two bites, turned an interesting shade of green, and darted into the bathroom.

"Becky?" He put down his spoon and stood outside the locked door. "You okay, Hun?"

"Yes," she said in a somewhat shaky voice. "I just remembered why I don't eat breakfast."

"You need me to hold your hair back?" he asked, over the sound of retching, trying the knob again and considering just kicking it down.

"It's in a ponytail," she reminded him matter-of-factly, before retching again.

"I know." He smiled despite himself. "Do you need anything?"

"No."

He threw away her toast, and his cereal to be safe, and made her a fresh cup of tea, just in time for her to sit down at the table heavily. She gave him a grateful smile over the rim of her mug. "Ta."

"Maybe we should start the garden tomorrow," he suggested, sitting next to her.

"Nonsense, I feel fine now." To prove her point, she nearly bounded into the bedroom.

When they got dressed, Raylan put on his usual jeans and boots, although he exchanged his button-down for a t-shirt and beloved hat for a ball cap. Becky pulled on the only pair of faded jeans she owned (and, apparently having someone around to force her into semi-regular eating habits was a good thing, because she only buttoned the top button with difficulty) and one of Raylan's t-shirts because she did not own one with less than four holes.

Apparently, Becky was as bad in the garden section of Lowes as she was at the grocery store.

"Neither of us even likes lima beans," he reminded her when she tossed six packets of seeds into the cart.

"I don't want to ingest them," she scoffed. "Their chemical compounds should provide an excellent base from which to test a new alkaloid I am inventing."

He sighed, but made no attempt to remove the seeds. "I wonder if Boyd likes lima beans…"

"Raylan!"

"Just kidding."

When they finally made it home, it was with seeds (corn, lima beans, peas, carrots and marrows, otherwise known as cucumbers) and live plants (marigolds, tomatoes, hyacinths, and rose bushes). They also had two pear trees and, oddly, a potted cactus. Even more oddly, Becky had started calling it Bruce.

"Bruce" was immediately plopped in the middle of the dining table. While Becky was introducing the cactus and the skull, Raylan unloaded the rest of the stuff they had bought, including, but not limited to; a hose, shovels, spade, a hose, gloves, and a tiller. This might have seemed a bit extreme for a new hobby, but Raylan had once looked at the balance of their combined accounts. The number had scared him a bit, but he had started buying better beer.

Becky offered to help with the tilling, but Raylan insisted that it was a one person job. Instead, she skyped her uncles in the kitchen while he struggled on the too damp ground, stubbornly refusing to wait until a better day.

She wandered back outside an hour later to bring him a beer and got very distracted by the sweat dropping off his skin and making his shirt cling to his stomach. Needless to say, by the time she got over her distraction, it was too late to do anything else.

"Do you think I'll be any good at this gardening lark?" She asked while they waited for their pizza to arrive.

Raylan had his back to her, rooting through the fridge for another beer, but something in her tone made him turn around. She was looking at him with a serious, almost nervous expression. "Why do you ask?"

"I'm not the most…nurturing person."

He shrugged. "You take care of me okay."

She frowned. "You don't need me."

"Only every day."

Their pizza arrived before he could really get to the root of it, and she never brought it up again, but he had a feeling that he was missing something.


	6. Saturday

AN: This one actually did not take as long… Hopefully, neither will Sunday. You guys are the best.

Raylan woke to what sounded like an air assault. He rolled out of the bed in his boxers, grabbing his gun off of the nightstand. He checked out the window and recognized the helicopter touching down in his front yard.

"Becky," he called to his wife, whose only response to a possible air assault was to cover her head with a pillow. "Your father's here."

"Bloody hell!" She pulled the covers over her head as well. Raylan chuckled and pulled on a pair of blue-jeans and a t-shirt. Becky cared for her father, but always needed to prepare herself for visits.

Raylan poured himself a cup of coffee from the timer-set pot and, out of habit, started the kettle for tea. He walked from the kitchen to the hall and opened the front door just as Mycroft Holmes reached the stoop.

"Thank you," he said grandly, carefully leaning his beloved umbrella against the wall by Becky's rain boots. (Raylan had his suspicions about there being secret gadgets inside that thing).

It was a Holmes trait, walking into a room and immediately owning the space. Mycroft did it with sharp, precise movements and a baleful gaze, whereas Sherlock and Becky did it with flamboyance and obvious assessment.

Raylan stifled a snort as Sherlock swept in dramatically, wearing a silk dress shirt and shoes that probably cost more than Raylan's couch and, judging by the squeaking, had just thrown himself into that aforementioned couch with abandon.

John, Raylan's favorite in-law, trailed in last. Somehow, he managed to balance two expensive looking leather suitcases and rather battered carpet bag. He dropped them inside the hall and gave Raylan a wan smile. "I'm assuming by your rather calm appearance that Becky's near death was an exaggeration."

"Yep."

"Nice to see you, Raylan." Neither of them were huggy people, but the handshake was friendly and so were the, somewhat tired, smiles.

"You too, John. There's coffee in the kitchen if you want some. You know where the mugs are?"

"Who needs a mug? I'm going to drink it straight from the pot."

Raylan shook his head. "I know the feeling." He walked back to the living room to see Becky, dressed and flawless, sitting on the arm of the sofa by Sherlock's head while Mycroft perched on the edge of a chair. Raylan leaned against the wall by the window and watched when John adopted the same pose by the door, steaming cup in hand.

"Lovely as it is to see you all, I am curious as to why you came in such a hurry; especially with Father being in the middle of an important discussion on Middle East tariffs and Uncle Sherlock in the middle of a case involving a lighthouse and trained swallows…no, cormorants."

Mycroft steepled his fingers together, in one of the few gestures he shared with his brother and daughter. "You spoke with John yesterday. He seemed very concerned about your health when he hung up, talking about changes and concerns and a long-term illness."

Raylan pricked up his ears at that, looking at her with concern. A similar, though better concealed, expression was on Sherlock's face.

Becky and John, however, looked at each other for a moment before they both burst into laughter. "You commandeered the royal jet and helicopter-" Becky clutched her chest as she convulsed in silent laughter, "instead of just calling me and asking if I was alright!"

"You'll never be able to pretend you don't bloody care again," John affirmed, having to rest his mug on the bookshelf to keep from spilling. "You made it sound like she was captured by terrorists!"

Sherlock looked miffed at their display of mirth. "There are a host of genetic health risks on her mother's side of the family."

"I'm pregnant!" Becky explained.

Raylan nearly dropped his cup.

"I was trying to find the right time to tell you," she said quietly, walking over to stand in front of him. "And this is probably not it, but, yes, I'm pregnant."

Without thinking, Raylan's hand stole down to rest on her stomach. There was no denying the joy in her eyes or the tremor in her voice when she asked "well?"

He put his mug on the table and kissed her in response.

Sherlock coughed when he thought they had been given enough time. "What are you going to name it?"

"I was thinking Hamish," she said, far more shy than Raylan had ever seen her. "If Raylan approves. Hamish Sigerson* Arthur Givens."

Raylan thought about objecting to three names, one of them being Sigerson, but then he thought about the fact that Becky was going to be the one pushing out a seven pound crying football and decided to just nod.

John and Sherlock both looked astounded to be included in the name and, for once, Sherlock said nothing to spoil the moment.

Mycroft smiled a little, looking softer than usual. Raylan thought that maybe, being a grandfather would change him for the better. "It's just as likely to be girl, Becky. What then?"

She frowned, clearly never having considered that possibility. "Athena? Or, maybe…Susan?" She shrugged. "Irrelevant. It's a boy, I know it."

"No you don't," Sherlock argued. "That's not logic. That is hormones."

"Yes, well, what's logical about the fact that right now I am growing a liver?"

"Actually," John interjected, frowning at his now cold cup of coffee. "At four weeks you've barely made the placenta."

*Sigerson is fanon for Sherlock's middle name since he used it during his hiatus as a long-term alias


	7. Sunday

AN: JustWhelmed, wonderful person that she is, is attempting to get me to write a sequel about the baby. I am, however, also strongly considering a fanfiction retirement in order to pursue an original novel. That being said, you have been a lovely, loyal crowd and I shall miss you.

Disclaimer: I own Becky, but everything else belongs to better people than I.

Every summer, Art and his wife Maggie had a cook-out in their house for the entire office, all seven of them. Raylan thought he heard a smile in Art's voice when he extended the invitation to Becky's family.

It was nice to see everyone out of the office; Rachel brought her nephew, who was apparently extremely interested in chemistry. Or maybe it was just Becky's red shirt. Either way, they were sequestered under a poplar tree, plates balanced precariously on their knees. Becky gesticulated wildly while Nick gaped at her, fork half-way to his mouth. Raylan doubted that the kid had the slightest idea of what she was talking about, but Becky at her most intense is a dynamic and fascinating phenomena.

Raylan nodded at Rachel, who was getting seconds on potato salad and watching her nephew with a fond smile, then grabbed beers for himself and Sherlock.

The other man was leaning against the swing set Art had put up for his grandkids. He took the bottle without a word of thanks, but, also, without a look of scorn. Raylan counted it as a win. He noticed Rachel watching them and shrugged. He doubted that Sherlock missed the gesture, but neither said anything.

While John was Raylan's favorite in-law, he and Sherlock got along just fine. Raylan, being a very self-contained man, had the ability to be still and quiet, which Sherlock valued and appreciated in other people. Raylan honestly did not mind just standing, watching the gaiety from the edges, and he knew that it was the other man's preferred way to interact socially.

So, Raylan was surprised when Sherlock spoke. "She seems happy."

The Marshal did not need to ask who. Sherlock was only even remotely concerned with the happiness of two people, and only one of them was female.

"I do my best to keep her that way," he replied mildly.

Sherlock gave to response, but Raylan needed none. To most people, Sherlock's spot would have looked utterly random. However, Raylan was an expert at reading the Holmes family—from the power behind Mycroft's _bureaucratic_ face, to the calm certainty behind Becky's most frantic behaviors, to the danger that lay under John's woolen sweaters. He knew that Sherlock had picked a spot where his niece and friend where in perfect view and his brother only on the fringe.

They said nothing for a long moment, until Rachel came over. She and Sherlock briefly exchanged pleasantries, with the detective obviously uncomfortable (Raylan noticed John shooting Sherlock a warning look). Finally, Rachel smiled and brought up Sherlock's favorite subject: Crime.

"So," she said quietly. "I got my Master's in Criminal Psychology—"

"I know."

"And I was wondering about your theory on a couple of unsolved cases."

"If you're going to ask me about the Ripper murders—"

"Actually," Rachel smiled. "I was going to ask about Bible John."

Sherlock looked startled, but then he grinned. "Refreshing."

Raylan assured after that, that neither of them was going to eat each other, wandered over to the grill where Mycroft and Art were discussing politics.

"I assure you," Mycroft was saying, suit perfectly ironed and umbrella, miraculously, left in the car. "We are not so ignorant as you seem to think."

Art, arms crossed over his BBQ apron, raised an eyebrow. " 'We'?"

Mycroft smiled. "It's a fault of the British; the royal 'we' is engrained in our subconscious."

"Mmhmm."

Raylan was not getting in middle of that. Tim noticed him standing off to the side and waved him over to where he and John were having a discussion on their times in the Middle East.

"And then," John smiled at Raylan when he joined them, but did not pause in his story. "The leader of the group says something quickly in Farsi to one of the boys in the back. He drops his gun and runs off." His voice was even, but the corner of his mouth quirked with the hidden smile of someone approaching the punch line. "So, my boys and I," he continued, "all have our guns out, and I'm facing down this big bloke wishing I had more than a handgun and a scalpel. That's when the kid runs back, right into the thick of my squad…and drops this goat, tied up and bleating, Right At My Feet." Both Raylan and Tim laugh at John's dumbfounded expression. "Then, just like that, they all vanish back behind the rock! My Major slaps me upside the head and goes 'Watson, you bloody idiot! You were just supposed to ask for directions!' "

Tim laughed so hard that he actually turned red (which was something Raylan had never seen him do; he thought John had to be a good influence). "Oh God," Tim wheezed. "That reminds me of the time, back when I was in the Rangers, when I was checking out the target back when I was a sniper, and, I swear to you, the guy's pet _deer_ kept following me!"

While he listened to Tim's story, Raylan looked around the scene. He was, very shortly, going to be raising his child in this. It occurred to him that he could not do much better than to expose him, or her, to Tim's loyalty, Art's leadership, Rachel's common sense, John's patience, Sherlock's determination. Even Mycroft's people skills, though, perhaps in more limited basis.

Not to mention the quicksilver intelligence the child was likely to inherit from Becky or Raylan's own more admirable traits.

Even if the kid wound up nothing like any of them… He smiled. There was at least a guarantee that life would be interesting.

AN2: Mycroft does have people skill, they are just more manipulative. But there are times when that could be helpful. lol


End file.
